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Chapter One

Emma

S ometimes dreams really do smell like freshly ground coffee beans and old book pages.

The evening rush has finally died down, leaving me alone in my kingdom of stories and caffeine.

Chapter & Grind.

The Iron Ridge locals favorite book shop.

My impossible dream turned brick-and-mortar reality.

It feels especially magical at this hour.

The exposed wooden beams overhead catch the last golden rays of sunlight streaming through the bay windows, illuminating dust motes dancing above the bookshelves that stretch from floor to ceiling.

This place is any book lovers heaven.

But three years ago, this space was nothing but a dusty abandoned storefront with water damage and dreams of better days.

I remember standing in the empty shell, clutching my business plan in trembling hands while my mother's voice echoed in my head: "A bookstore-café? In this economy? Emma, be realistic, for goodness sake!"

Now… it's the heartbeat of Iron Ridge.

At least… it is for the dreamers, the readers, and the caffeine addicts who need somewhere to soothe their withdrawals.

My fingers trail along the worn spines of the romance section as I manage to take a moment for the first time all day, savoring the feeling of being surrounded by stories and the endless possibilities I constantly dream up in my head in moments like this.

The coffee counter, with its gleaming espresso machine, is my second favorite spot of my little cozy shop. The first being the sunken reading area by the fireplace where I've spent countless nights curled up after hours, reading books I can't bear to put down.

I've labeled that particular armchair " Reserved for a Chaos Gremlin ," which never fails to make Lucy, my best friend and Iron Ridge local, laugh.

I'm still riding the high from yesterday's charity game.

My special "Hat Trick" blend practically sold out before the second period even started. Maybe that's why I feel especially protective of my little sanctuary tonight, like I'm finally proving that following your heart isn't always the wrong choice.

I run my fingers along the sleek, forest green label of the coffee sachet I designed myself, the words "Chapter & Grind" emblazoned across the front in a font that took me three days to perfect.

It's a small thing really, but… it's mine .

Something my mother would probably call a "cute little hobby" with that painfully condescending smile of hers. The smile that says, "When are you going to grow up and get a real job like your sister?"

The smile that's haunted me since childhood, when my dreams were too big and too loud for the neat boxes Cynthia Carter had prepared for her daughters.

Still, I'd rather have this "hobby" than my sisters picture-perfect suburban life. With its color-coordinated throw pillows and PTA meetings… blurgh.

My sister might have followed the script, but I've written my own.

Complete with the smell of freshly roasted beans and the sound of freshly printed new release pages turning on quiet, lazy afternoons in Iron Ridge.

The bell above the door chimes, and I look up to see Lucy bouncing in with Connor trailing behind her, both of them grinning like they've just heard the world's best secret.

"There she is!" Lucy announces, slamming her palms dramatically onto the counter. "Iron Ridge's new caffeine dealer. You're practically famous, Emma!"

I roll my eyes, but can't help the smile spreading across my face. "Please. It's just coffee."

"Just coffee?" Connor looks personally offended as he slides onto one of the bar stools. "That ' Shot Block ' blend you had at the game yesterday? I drank three cups and played the best third period of my life."

"That's because you were so wired you probably saw the puck in slow motion," Lucy teases, reaching over to ruffle his hair.

"Yeah," Connor laughs. "Can't say Coach was too pleased. Lucky it was only a pre-season warm up. "

Connor captures Lucy's hand and presses a kiss to her palm, making her blush furiously. Those two are still in that honeymoon phase where they can't keep their hands off each other.

It's disgustingly cute.

Or just disgusting.

I can't decide.

"Seriously though," Lucy continues, hopping onto the stool beside Connor. "Everyone's talking about your blends, Em. Big Mike himself was asking where you learned to roast beans!"

A warm flush of pride spreads through my chest. Big Mike, the Icehawks' owner, is notoriously picky about everything… especially his coffee.

"My grandfather taught me," I admit, glancing at the vintage roaster that now sits unused, but still well-loved, in the corner. "Every summer once I was old enough, we'd try different beans from around the world. Mom thought it was a waste of time."

I bite my tongue, wishing I hadn't added that last part.

Lucy knows all about my complicated relationship with my mother, but I don't need to advertise it to the entire town.

"Mothers," Lucy says with an understanding nod and roll of her eyes. "Mine used to hint that I should 'put my creative talents to better use' working for my father's company."

She makes air quotes and rolls her eyes again, letting Connor rub her back.

I smile softly, then quickly shift gears. "Anyway, I'm testing some new blends for fall. Want to be my guinea pigs?"

They nod, and as I'm setting up small sample cups, the bell chimes again.

My grandfather, Walter, steps through the door wearing his Chapter & Grind baseball cap with the jauntily embroidered coffee bean logo.

At eighty-two, he still stands tall, his red and black flannel shirt seen better days, though his suspenders are perfectly aligned over his substantial belly.

"There's my superstar!" Grandpa Walt booms, his voice filling the cozy space.

"I stopped by the grocery store, and Mrs. Henderson couldn't stop talking about your coffee.

Said it was better than that fancy stuff her son brings from Seattle.

" He winks at me. "You're becoming a real big shot, Emma-bean. "

"Hi, Grandpa Walt," Lucy waves enthusiastically. "Emma's about to let us taste her new blends."

"Well now, that's a real honor," he says, sliding onto a stool with surprising agility for a man his age. "Don't tell your grandmother, but these taste tests are the highlight of my week."

"Grandma's been gone fifteen years, Grandpa," I remind him gently.

"And she'd still find a way to scold me for drinking too much caffeine after four," he chuckles.

I'm laughing at his familiar joke when movement outside the window catches my eye. My heart does that stupid little flutter thing it always does when none other than Logan Kane appears in my line of sight.

He's standing on the sidewalk, a towering wall of muscle in a simple black henley that stretches across his broad shoulders like it's hanging on for dear life.

At six-foot-five, he makes even Connor look average-sized.

The fading afternoon light catches on his dark black hair. It's short but somehow perpetually tousled, and the darkness highlights the scar running from his temple to his cheekbone.

We've worked closely enough for a few weeks now that I know the scar is a souvenir from some long-ago hockey fight that should make him look dangerous but somehow just makes him more... compelling.

His ocean-blue eyes are intense beneath dark brows, his jaw tight as he watches us laugh through the window.

Those eyes always surprise me—so vividly blue against his darker features, like something wild and unexpected hiding in plain sight.

He has the kind of face that belongs on billboards but instead scowls from the penalty box of the Iron Ridge Icehawks.

High cheekbones, a straight nose that's miraculously unbroken despite his profession, and lips that are surprisingly full for someone so. .. hard everywhere else.

Not that I've spent time analyzing Logan Kane's lips.

Or the way his forearms flex when he crosses them over his chest.

Or how his thighs strain against worn denim.

Nope. Haven't noticed any of that.

In my eyes, he's just Logan Kane.

The Icehawks' bruiser. The man who'd rather take a punch than speak more than three words at a time. The guy who makes my pulse race for absolutely no logical reason whatsoever, despite my best efforts to ignore anything that draws me to him.

"Speak of the devil," Connor says, following my gaze. "Kane! Get in here, man. Emma's giving out free samples."

Logan hesitates for a moment before pushing through the door. I notice he's carrying what looks like a stack of lumber under one arm. The veins in his forearms flow like rivers, disappearing beneath his shirt as he steadies the wood like it weighs nothing.

"Hey," he says in that deep, gravelly voice that shouldn't send shivers down my spine but absolutely does.

"What's with the wood?" Lucy asks, tilting her head curiously.

"Shelves," Logan answers, setting the stack down gently against the wall. Those blue eyes flicker to me, making my heart jolt in my chest. "For the new blends… remember? We talked about this."

My mouth forms a small 'o' of surprise.

Three weeks ago, I had mentioned… in passing… that I needed more shelving for my expanding coffee line.

I'd completely forgotten, but apparently, Logan hadn't.

"Um, yeah. Right. You remembered that?" I ask, unable to keep the astonishment from my voice.

He gives me a look that's somehow both annoyed and amused.

"You said you needed them."

And apparently, that's Logan in a nutshell.

I say something once, and he not only remembers but shows up with materials to make it happen. It's kind of annoying. Except for the part where it's incredibly sweet and way too helpful.

"Well, thank you," I say, busying myself with the coffee samples to hide the flush creeping up my neck. "That's really... nice."

"Can't have your shit falling down," he mutters, and I catch the ghost of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.